Shirley, his acuteness returned by this time, ran to the car eluding his captor's hold. He had not observed before the jagged shattered hole torn in the side of the leather side. It had all happened so swiftly, that his professional instincts were slow in reasserting themselves after the “buck” of the car.
“You're right,” he exclaimed. “There's an alarm clock and a dry battery—the same man made this who built the gas-generator—”
“Whadd'ye mean—ain't you the feller after all?” asked the first patrolman, beginning to get dubious about his arrest.
“No, I am no thief. But just take me to the station-house quick, and turn in your report. Let this other man guard that car. Hurry up!”
“Say, feller, who do you think is making this arrest? You'll go to the station-house when I get ready.”
“Then you're ready now,” snapped the criminologist. “You'll see me discharged very promptly, when I speak to the Commissioner over the wire.”
The officer was supercilious until the station-house was reached. He had heard this blatant talk before. What was his surprise when Shirley telephoned to the head of the Department and then called the Captain to the instrument.
“Release Mr. Shirley at once,” was the crisp order. “Give him any men or assistance he needs.”
“Well, whadd'ye know about that? Not even entered on the blotter to credit me with a good arrest!” The patrolman turned away in disgust.
“Do you want any of the reserves, sir?” The Captain was scrupulously polite.